Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (17 page)

Riley's backpack was empty. They needed it to carry out whatever they found buried underneath the ninth hole.

“Give Briana her wake-up call,” Riley said to Jake. “We'll contact her as soon as we have what we need.”

Fifteen minutes later, Riley and Mongo were on their bellies behind the ninth hole watching Larry and Curly scooping out the sand trap with their backhoe.

Riley flipped down his father's old night-vision goggles so he could see everything clear as day (except that it was all extremely green).

Larry was up in the cab, working the twin sticks controlling the boom and bucket. Curly was down by the hole with a shovel.

“How far down do you think they've dug?” asked Mongo.

“Hang on.” Riley adjusted the zoom on his goggles. “Okay. Curly is signaling to Larry to cut the engine.”

In the distance, the backhoe engine shuddered to a halt.

“Now Curly is jumping into the ditch. I can't see the top of his helmet, so I guess they're down five, maybe six feet. Okay. This is it. Curly's waving his shovel out of the hole. He's found something.”

Mongo stood up. Dusted off his pants. Tugged down on the brim of his costume cop hat.

Riley moved the digital recorder closer to the bullhorn, then aimed a battery-powered spotlight straight at the backhoe.

“You ready?” he asked Mongo.

“Ready.”

Riley flicked on the switch to the 4,200-lumen searchlight. Its beacon was about as bright as the one in a lighthouse.

Next, he pulled the trigger on the bullhorn and pressed
PLAY
on the recorder.

“Freeze!” boomed Briana's digitally altered, Darth Vader–esque voice. “This is Brookhaven Security! Do not move!”

Riley pressed
PAUSE
as Curly climbed out of the hole. Then he and Larry did as the voice had commanded.

Now Mongo swaggered into the dusty beam of the searchlight, swinging his plastic nightstick.

Riley punched
PLAY.

“And don't think you can outrun our guard,” Briana's robo-voice continued. “Just because Officer Pettigrew had his appendix removed last week doesn't mean he can't chase after you two.”

Riley hit
PAUSE.

Curly and Larry looked at each other.

Made up their minds.

And took off running.

Riley hit
PLAY
one more time.

“Wait!” shouted the bullhorn voice. “Come back, you two. Are you okay, Officer Pettigrew?”

“No,” groaned Mongo. “My stitches. I think I popped my stitches.”

Riley followed Curly and Larry with the handheld spotlight until they disappeared into the forest on the far side of the fairway.

He doused the lamp. “Good work, Mongo!”

“Did I do the stitches line right?”

“Perfect.” Riley slipped on a pair of heavy work gloves. “Come on. We need to check out that hole. Now!”

They dashed across the damp grass to the sand trap.

Riley handed Mongo his empty backpack.

“I'm going in.” He hopped down into the six-foot-deep hole and switched on his flashlight.

“What is it?” asked Mongo, who was peering down into the pit.

“Can't tell yet.”

Riley saw all sorts of torn black bags, their outsides stained with white smears. Clearly, the trash can liners weren't waterproof. The top one was punctured in several places as if rodents had nibbled through the plastic. Chalky chemicals had leaked out and polluted the groundwater.

Riley reached into the top bag and felt some kind of lumpy sack. He moved his flashlight closer and, inside the trash bag, saw several brown paper bags stacked on top of one another.

“It's flour. No, wait.” He ran the beam of his flashlight along the very generic lettering on the outside of the paper bag:

Protein-Power Pancake Mix

10 Pounds

U.S. Government Property

For Dining Facility Use Only

Commercial Resale Is Unlawful.

Product of Mobile Meal Manufacturing

“It's some kind of government-surplus pancake mix.”

“Just grab it and let's go!” said Mongo.

He was right. They could examine the evidence later. Right now, they needed to alert Briana because she needed to make another phone call as Mr. Paxton, this time to Curly's cell.

“Here!” Riley tossed the ten-pound sack out of the hole. Mongo jammed it inside Riley's empty backpack. Then he reached down into the trench, grabbed Riley by the arm, and hauled him up and out.

“We need to pack our gear and leave,” said Riley.

“What about the hole?”

“Curly and Larry will be back to fill it in as soon as Mr. Paxton calls them!”

They dashed back toward the treeline.

“I'll take care of our junk,” said Mongo. “You call Briana.”

“Works for me.”

RILEY LISTENED IN VIA THREE-WAY
conference as Briana placed the call.

“Hello?” he heard a nervous Curly say.

“Are you the idiot they call Curly?”

“Who is this?

“Prescott P. Paxton. I believe we've met?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Curly, you may wonder why a very important man such as myself is calling you at three thirty in the morning.”

“Well, yeah, sort of. How'd you even get my phone number?”

“I'm filthy rich. I can get anything I want or need, Mr. Curly.”

Riley cringed. They totally should've found out Curly's last name or even his
real
first name.

“Yes, sir, sir,” said Curly, clearly cowed by the early-morning phone call from the chairman and CEO of Xylodyne Dynamics. “Um, can I help you with something, sir?”

“
Nyes
. The Brookhaven Country Club security patrol just called. Apparently, someone matching your description was seen with another short, stout fellow running a backhoe out behind hole number nine of our beautifully refurbished golf course.”

“Yeah,” said Curly. “That was me and Larry.”

“What, pray tell, were you and this Larry chap doing with a backhoe at this early hour?”

“You really want to know?”

“Nyes.”

“Digging up your freaking gold!”

Briana paused perfectly. “You know . . . about . . . my . . . gold?”

Okay. Now she was laying it on a little thick.

“Yeah, pal. We know everything. See, we got our hands on your little treasure map. The one your daughter stole out of your briefcase and copied at the coffee shop.”

“I see. Very well, Curly. You and your chum seem to have me over a barrel, as they say.”

“Yeah. We do.”

“Does anybody else know about our little landfill?”

“Just some punk kids who were nosing around the golf course earlier. Me and Larry scared 'em off.”

Riley grinned.
Oh they did, did they?

“Well done. Was one of the boys, perchance, an impudent young African American by the name of Jamal Wilson?”

“Yeah. He was there.”

“Oh, dear.”

“What's the matter?”

“Mr. Wilson's father is a world-renowned treasure hunter.”

“Yeah. We heard about that. How they went scuba diving in the Bermuda Triangle and all.”

“We need to move quickly.”

“How come?”

“If we don't, Jamal's father will.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's a pro! Ahab Wilson is the man who, single-handedly, dug up Blackbeard's gold on the Isle of Tortuga!”

“So what do you suggest we do here, Mr. Paxton?”

“First, go back to that sand trap and fill in your hole. Put everything back the way it was.”

“No problem.”

“Then, tonight, while we're holding the gala reopening bash in the ballroom, you and your friend return to the sand trap and dig it up again. The talent show will be the perfect cover. I'll make sure all the security guards are inside, protecting our special guests and dignitaries. We'll turn up the music and drown out any noise you two might make with your heavy machinery while digging up the gold.”

“And why, exactly, would we want to do that?”

“Did I forget to mention that I would give you fifty percent of everything you retrieve?”

“We want sixty.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“But we'll settle for fifty.”

“Good. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Paxton.”

“Excellent.”

“So, tell me: how much loot are we talking about?”

“At today's market price for gold? Sixty million dollars!”

Curly whistled in astonishment.

“
Nyes
. We'll make the split Sunday afternoon in your construction trailer.”

“Okey-doke.”

“One more thing, Curly.”

“What's that?”

“As you may know, Xylodyne Dynamics has extensive contacts within the United States military establishment.”

“So?”

“So, if you and your friend Larry try to double-cross me, if you attempt to abscond with my gold coins or dig them up
before
tomorrow night, a team of navy SEALs and Green Berets will hunt you down and eliminate you with extreme prejudice. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Now go fill in that hole!”

“Right away, sir.”

Riley powered off his phone to make sure the conference call was disconnected. Then he speed-dialed Briana.

“How was I?” she gushed.

“Perfect. Your best performance ever!”

“Really?”

“Totally. Go back to sleep. You need your rest. Tomorrow night's your big night.”

“What're you guys doing next?”

“In the morning, we'll go see Ms. Kaminski.”

“The science teacher? Why?”

“We need her to check out a sack of pancake powder.”

Saturday was an extremely busy day.

Briana needed to rehearse her act for the talent show finals. (She called Riley three times to let him know how nervous she was.)

Riley's mom wanted him to make sure his sport coat still fit for their big night as the country club's guests of honor. He also had to go see Ms. Kaminski at the Fairview Civic Center, where she'd be spending her day off at a CSI Fan Fest.

So at noon, when his mother went to her office to take care of some paperwork, Riley biked to the civic center. Ms. Kaminski was with a group of people in the parking lot, looking at a car parked behind yellow police tape. There were bullet-hole decals on the window and a dead mannequin sitting behind the steering wheel.

“Ms. Kaminski?” said Riley.

“Oh, hi, Riley. Give me a second. I need to work out my trajectory angles. Whoever comes up with the best solution to this staged crime scene wins a souvenir CSI tote bag!”

“Cool. But, well—we think we found what's killing all those fish.”

“You identified the source of contamination?”

“We think so. And it's not just Mongo's fishpond that's polluted. It's the whole watershed.”

“Did you guys alert the EPA?”

“Not yet. First we want to make sure we know what kind of poison we're talking about.”

He held up a plastic baggie filled with a cup of the grainy powder he had scooped out of the ten-pound paper sack.

“What is it?”

“Pancake mix. We found it buried under the Brookhaven Golf Course.”

“Who would bury pancake mix?”

“I don't know. But, there's tons of the stuff buried out there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. A
real
crime to solve. Mr. Mack, do you have time to come with me to my boyfriend's chemistry lab?”

“Yes, ma'am!”

Riley secured his bike to the rack on the back of Ms. Kaminski's small car.

“You know, Riley,” she said as they drove away from the civic center, “you and Hubert really ought to work this up as a science project next year.”

“We might. But first, we need to save some fish.”

“THIS IS WORSE THAN CHINESE
dog food,” said Ms. Kaminski's boyfriend, Ron, after he ran a series of tests on the pancake powder.

“What'd you find?” asked Ms. Kaminski.

“Melamine
and
cyanuric acid. If this junk leached into the water table, it would explain why all those fish died.”

“What exactly are melamine and cyanuric acid?” asked Riley.

“Melamine,” said Ms. Kaminski, “is a chemical high in nitrogen that's used to make all kinds of plastics and fertilizers. It's also been helpful for synthesizing medicines and as a nitrogen supplement for dairy cows.”

“But wouldn't it make the cows sick?”

“Not on its own,” Ms. Kaminski said. “Melamine is essentially nontoxic. But combined with cyanuric acid . . .”

“KA-BOOM!” said Ron. “Mix the two, and the concoction causes crystals to form in urine, which can create kidney stones that lead to acute renal failure and death.”